The Strigoi were an uncivilised-looking folk, but sturdy. Hardy, even, and their blood pumped bright in their veins as Neferata examined them. They all carried weapons, even the lowest among them, and they were a pale folk, with dark hair. A young people, as hers judged such things, barely out of the mire of the caves. But they had accomplished much in a short period of time.

And all, apparently, without the help of the gods; she saw no sign of temples or priests. The priestess in her rebelled at the thought… though she had long since turned from her own gods, the idea of them not even being represented was hard to grasp. Indeed, it was a weakness. A people with no faith were open to exploitation. She gave a soft laugh. These were thoughts for the future.

As they moved through the city, Neferata’s followers rejoined her, slipping between Strezyk’s men to form a barrier between their mistress and the armoured warriors. The column thinned as they approached the centre of the city; Vorag’s men stayed behind, in the lower streets, but Strezyk led Neferata and her companions on. The burly vampire gave her a grin and a wave as he departed. He had noticed Strezyk’s presence, and seemed to know what it meant. Abhorash and his two men, however, followed at a distance, staying a respectful distance from Strezyk’s group. She wondered if her former champion thought that she might try and flee.

When she saw the pyramid, she knew that the answer was ‘yes’.

Neferata was careful not to let her emotions show on her face as she looked up at the monstrosity of stone. It rose up suddenly, like a leopard springing from a tree. It was a massive structure, bristling with outcroppings and crude structural additions that seemed to serve no purpose save ornament.

It was a pyramid in name only; the resemblance was a superficial one. It was a crude mockery of the great pyramids of Nehekhara, devised by barbaric minds and built by unskilled hands. Heavy dark stones had been piled atop one another much like the grim barrows which dotted the northern lands. It careened high above the city, and stable growths of structure flourished along its length. There were narrow windows and balconies and things that might have been towers.

It crouched like a beast over the winding river which encircled and ran through Mourkain, and the rest of the city seemed to recoil from it, as if in fear. She knew at once, with an instinct honed by years of dealing with dark magics and ill omens, that this was the source of the black sun that had so tormented her.

‘This is bigger than I remember,’ Razek said, looking up at the pyramid. ‘Old Kadon built it, the mad bugger. Back before we stopped coming here…’ He trailed off, clutching his axe more tightly.

‘This way, if you please,’ Strezyk said, leading them towards the ornate doors that marked the entrance to the pyramid. As they neared them, Neferata felt something dark and beautiful surround her, like a bouquet of poisonous blossoms. The pain of earlier was swept aside by a rush of strange pleasure. She reached out to touch the rock and was rewarded by a pleasant tingle.

This, this was why she had come here. This place… Whatever was within called to her.

A clash of spears brought her back to herself. Men in ornate bronze armour blocked the doorway, their spears crossed over the aperture. ‘I thought you said that Ushoran wished to see us,’ Neferata said to Strezyk.

He nodded. ‘He wishes to see you, my lady, and Thane Silverfoot as well, of course. But not your — ah — followers,’ he said. He gestured, and his men moved to surround and separate Naaima and the others. Khaled had his hand on his sword and the others looked to Neferata. Strezyk’s men weren’t vampires, and the fight would be swift, if it came. Neferata looked to Abhorash.

‘I will vouchsafe you,’ he said. ‘Not that you need it.’ He rubbed the dent she had put in his armour and for just a moment, some of the humour of old was there in his eyes. ‘It’s tradition.’

Neferata sniffed and looked at Naaima. ‘I will be fine,’ she said, nodding sharply.

‘Of course you will,’ Strezyk said. He waved a hand and the spears were retracted. ‘You are safer here than anywhere else, my lady. Hetman Ushoran has ensured it.’ The oily unctuous tone put her teeth on edge, but she said nothing. Fuming, she followed Strezyk. Naaima and the others stayed behind, guarded by Strezyk’s men.

Everything about the pyramid seemed to press down upon her as she entered, as if it sought to force her to crawl on her belly like an asp. The presence in her head was louder now, murmuring constantly, just behind her thoughts. It was stronger within than without, and an aura of darkness clung to the stones. It burned her eyes to look too long in any one direction and her bones felt brittle and cold within their envelope of weak flesh.

Death coiled waiting in this place. Death and something else; the faint odour of smoke filled her nostrils, and she pulled her fingers back from the walls and tried to banish the sudden surge of fear that tickled at the base of her mind. She heard screams and could not tell whether they came from within her mind or from somewhere in the pyramid.

‘Are you well, my lady?’ Strezyk said unctuously. He was looking at her knowingly and she resisted the urge to slap him from his feet.

‘I am fine,’ she said. ‘Lead on.’

Great statues that reminded her of the ushabti of home lined the corridors, and ancient wall frescoes and paintings spread between them. The latter were immediately recognisable as being in the lost styles of Numas, Quatar and even Lahmia. She stopped at points, staring at them, yearning to touch them. She had never expected to see such concrete reminders of home again. Even the tiles in the floor were the same as those which had once lined the path to the Women’s Palace.

Ushoran was trying to re-create Lahmia. The thought struck her like a hammer-blow. Rage followed a moment later. How dare he? He, whose actions had led to her city’s destruction, dared to make a mockery of that lost paradise by hanging tapestries and encouraging these savages in aping Nehekharan ways?

The corridors themselves were crafted from slabs of stone and, like the pyramids of home, they moved across from east to west, and then up south to north in a zigzag pattern. It was like following a well-worn path. She knew where it would come out, as she recalled the holy routes of the temples of home. And with every step she took, the whispering in her head grew stronger. It was almost painful in its intensity, and she fought to ignore it.

The throne room crouched in the web of corridors that surrounded it, nestled like a cancer in the heart of the pyramid. Smoking, glowing braziers were scattered throughout the room, their light revealing the high balconies and great expanse of floor. At the other end of the room, a great flat dais rose, and on it, a throne. The throne was made from the ribcage of some great beast and spread across the rear wall, and on that throne… Ushoran.

The Ushoran she had known had had many faces. Brutish, handsome, plain, young and old; there was a reason he had been given the title of Lord of Masks. With Ushoran, there was no telling whether or not the face you were seeing, the voice you were hearing, was his own or a disguise he was putting on for one reason or another.

He sits in your chair, the voice hissed. She ignored it, trying to concentrate on the familiar-yet-not figure sitting before her. The man on the dais looked nothing like the man she remembered, but his body language, his expression was the same; those told the truth of him. He was handsome now, but the ugliness of old was there, in the curl of his lip and the twinkle in his eye. If he saw her, he gave no sign. He sat on his throne, lounging like a Cathayan potentate, dressed much as his nobles — trousers and a jerkin belted at the waist with a strap of beaten gold, and golden armlets and bracers on his heavily muscled limbs. A sword lay against his throne, still sheathed. He had never been one for weapons; it was just for show, most likely.